"How ridiculous!" said my friend. "I've had considerable experience with tigers in India ... those orders are absurd ... turn up the lights at once."
"No, sir; I daren't," answered the man.
A moment later, the gardener appeared with his clothing torn and his arm all over blood.
"I've shot the tiger between the eyes," he said, "and effectually."
We were rather relieved, and after some instructions as to his somewhat severe wound, finding we could be of no service, we prepared to go to bed, when our hostess suddenly turned up in rather a melodramatic looking boudoir gown, her hair dishevelled, and her face white as death. We went up to her (as she paused in the doorway, with her hand on her heart, she appeared to be suffering), and told her, thinking to reassure her, that the tiger had been shot by the gardener while mauling his son. When she realized the significance of our words, she gave way to a frenzy of anger.
"What! You don't mean to say that horrible man has shot the dear tiger that Sir Henry paid so much for! If he knew, he would no longer keep him in his service—I shall dismiss him at once!" And with a final burst of anger, she departed in a fit of hysterics.
When Lady Meux had gone, my friend, who was awfully upset, broke into anger.
"What a heartless woman!" he said. "Why, the poor chap ought to be well rewarded for his pluck, instead of which he will be dismissed. What a damned shame!"
At that moment the footman entered again. "Perhaps you'd like to know, sir," he announced, "the boy is still alive, and not so seriously hurt as we first thought."
We were somewhat relieved by this news, and as the lights were out we could not see to play billiards any longer, so we managed to grope round and find some little refreshment and go to bed.